Peter Needs a Spider-Sitter
by Semi-Retired Writer
Summary: SMHC. A collection of three Sickdays prompts. Peter gets hurt on patrol and relies on his best friend to take care of him and keep his secret. Warning for emeto.
1. Some Regrets

**Some Regrets**

Peter is still training as a superhero, but he _does_ consider himself a near master of webbing from building to building a solid ninety-nine percent of the time. It's just that pesky one percent that still bothers him, but it also keeps him grounded and reminds him not to get too cocky. It's not usually an issue if he's honest; either he was leaping high enough to have time to shoot another web, or the jump is low enough that it doesn't hurt much.

That's not how it goes today. He realizes too late in a thirty foot drop that his web didn't reach far enough to make contact, and that's all he has time to think before he lands on his stomach with an involuntary, "Oomph!"

He lays there for what could've been two seconds or several minutes before he notices he's not sucking in the air his body wants anymore. Is he dying? He fell kind of hard, he supposes, but it seems like he can remember having worse. Well, shit. He hopes he's not dying. Aunt May will never find him on top of this stupid apartment building. Actually, he really, really doesn't want to die anyway. He's shaking thinking about it. Hopefully no one will realize he was shivering in fear in his final moments. It makes him feel more like a child than a superhero.

He focuses on actively trying to take a deep breath, but all that happens is a quiet wheeze that doesn't get much air to his lungs. It's something, but it's not enough. His body hurts in response, but not quite in his lungs. It's more his head and the right side of his abdomen. It makes him not want to try that again, but he'd also very much like to be able to breathe, thank you very much, so he tries again only to get another wheeze and a little more air than before.

A third attempt finally brings the breath he's been desperate for. He feels like yelling in relief at cheating death, but he'd rather use all his breath for just quietly breathing at the moment so he resists the urge. He absently notes that he really needs to work on his medical knowledge if he's going to keep leaping from building to building and fighting bad guys.

He's cut off from his happy reunion with fresh air by a heave that jostles his side way too hard, and he pushes his mask above his nose before shoving himself onto shaky hands and knees to gain some distance from the rush of vomit that's about to follow. His mind feels sluggish while it's happening, but he realizes he'd been nauseous all along and just hadn't thought about it before it came to a head.

One harsh gag is all it takes before he goes right back to the sensation of not breathing, and he knows it shouldn't but it still scares him all over again. He doesn't want to feel like this so soon, he's still not over the first time, he's not _ready_.

Then, almost as soon as it started, it's over and he's breathing and it's okay. There's a small puddle of vomit below him, and the acidic aftertaste coats his mouth, and it's just plain gross, but he can _breathe_. He notices he's crying and that becomes sobbing and he can't figure out whether it's from the panic or the sheer physical force he'd unintentionally put into throwing up. He gasps and hiccups uncontrollably. He's glad no one is around to see him shaking like mad and crying over a little vomit.

He barely gags at all the next time and more vomit is quietly coming up with no warning and he hates it, but it's not as bad as the first time. _You're okay, you're okay, you're okay._ He keeps reminding himself in a mantra. His breath came back before, and it'll come back this time.

He spends who-knows-how-long occasionally gasping around unproductive sobs, gags, and retches and hates every moment of it, but it comes to an end eventually. He's still gasping, and he's pretty sure he's just panicking at this point. Probably. The nausea looms in the background, but he doesn't feel like he could puke at any moment anymore.

He leans back into a sitting position with his legs bent and splayed to the sides and wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his suit. Spandex isn't exactly the best material for this, but he makes do. Seeing the suit grounds him and reminds him that he was patrolling. He's pushed through illness and injury before, but he really doesn't feel up for that today. Part of him thinks he's just being weak. Another part screams that he deserves a break sometimes. He doesn't listen to that part often, but who is he to deny it now? Admittedly, the still sharp pain at the center of his forehead and along his side are major deciding factors.

He half-regrets going on this patrol. He just wants to go home and forget this ever happened. His body disagrees with that plan; his side aches even more and his legs tremble and fail him the two times he tries to pull himself to his feet. Now he's dizzy too, so he stays as still as possible, blinking at nothing in particular until the buildings around him don't seem to be closing in on him and he can easily read the nearby signs again. One marks the entrance to a small pizza place that makes him pause to consider whether he's more hungry or nauseous. He supposes it doesn't matter much. It's not like he even has the energy to get to the restaurant or the money to buy anything.

He huffs in frustration and crawls over to the half wall at one edge of the roof instead of trying to stand again. If he can't go home yet, he's at least going to have something vaguely comfortable to lean against while he rests his eyes and maybe catches a quick nap.


	2. Good Samaritan

**The Good Samaritan**

Peter can't hold back a groan when he wakes up. He has vague memories that suggest falling mid-swing, but everything is jumbled and confusing.

He certainly _feels_ like he fell mid-swing. A sharp headache pounds away mid-forehead where he can't ignore it no matter how hard he tries. He's pretty sure the dull ache in his side is his ribs and that scares him. He's never broken a rib. Is this what that feels like? Or is he just bruised? He'd heard of people bruising ribs before. Is it something worse? What if he destroyed his liver or something else important when he fell?

Maybe the nausea never fully disappeared or maybe the panic brought it back, but Peter doesn't especially want it making things worse, so he tries to calm down. He could… He could do something about this. He didn't know what yet, but he told himself he could handle this. It's just an everyday superhero issue. Mr. Stark probably deals with it all the time. He can do this.

After the name crosses his mind, he contemplates calling Mr. Stark but… he only met the guy two months ago. Now's not the time to make him think that he can't take care of basic injuries on his own. There's something distinctly sad about going through this alone, but sad is okay. Sad's better than panicking.

He remembers not being able to stand earlier. "When?" is a good question, but not one he's going to prioritize. Instead, he braces himself against his wall-turned-pillow and slowly pulls himself to his feet. He considers it a victory when his headache worsens and his vision wavers but doesn't deteriorate to the point of not being able to stay standing. He supports himself with an arm along the wall for a few quiet minutes, punctuated only by his own somewhat heavy breathing.

When the world stills and looks roughly as it should, he takes a tentative step away from the wall. So far, so good. He takes a few more steps for good measure. When he finds himself functioning well enough after that, he heads for the wall again and shoots a web to move to the next building. A short, "Here goes nothing!" is all he allows himself before he's jumping into a swing.

He regrets it now that he's soaring through the air with the pain in his side stabbing more harshly. He's proud that he manages to limit himself to one shocked yelp and a whimper. There's a shorter building nearby, and he makes a beeline for it. He shudders at his only remaining option, but scaling down the wall would at least be a more controlled pain than swinging home. He cringes before he flips over the wall, letting himself drop a fair few feet before he grabs on and sticks. He tries to hold most of his weight with his feet, but he can't completely avoid using the arm that pulls at his ribs. It's a slow descent as he pauses every few seconds to give his tender side a break, but he makes it to the ground. He's immediately assaulted by a bystander.

"Spider-Man!" He gets that the guy is excited, but the yelling isn't doing any favors for his head. "Are you okay!? Do you need help!?"

He shakes his head vigorously, but he knows he didn't sell it well when even that makes him dizzy enough to stagger toward the stranger. The man catches him and holds on. He knows it's meant to be comforting, but honestly, it's just making him panic more. When a forearm brushes against his side, he yelps and leaps back far enough to keep the guy at bay. In his defense, the man looks surprised that he hurt him and immediately apologizes.

"I'm working on my medical degree. I can help if you're hurt." Peter almost laughs. They both know he's hurt.

Maybe it's in his best interest, but he doesn't want to trust a random stranger on the street, no matter how well-meaning they seem. It's hard to duck out of the man's way, but he manages it. He feels like he should explain, but he honestly doesn't feel like making excuses to some random dude. He's in pain, he's tired, and he just wants to sneak into the apartment, take a large dose of painkillers, and rest up so he can heal before Aunt May sees him because he _really_ can't pin this on bullies. He can't grasp how to verbally respond, so he tries for a friendly wave instead as he backs up the way he was going. Walking backwards isn't as easy as it should be, and he stumbles through a half-turn so he can start walking normally again.

He passes a few more well-meaning bystanders. One even goes as far as grabbing his upper arm to keep him from moving on, but Peter shakes the hands off and brushes away the concern with a fast, "Thanks, but I'm fine!" He wonders if he's convincing anyone though. He certainly isn't convincing himself.

He needs people to stop offering to help him. He appreciates the most likely intentions, but it doesn't change the fact that any of them _could_ be trying to take advantage of his weakened state to reveal his identity. There were other heroes who kept secret identities, but New York was used to the likes of the Avengers, people who didn't mind being open about their civilian alter egos. Citizens were still way too curious about Spider-Man's identity, but maybe he could get home unbothered as Peter Parker.

It's hard to keep track of who's watching him as he makes his way to where he stored his clothes. He usually swings through the city or runs, and no one is really willing to put in the physical effort to keep up then. He can walk backwards to make sure nobody's following, but that's difficult in his state and makes him stumble more. He can keep twisting his head to look side to side and over his shoulder, but that brings the dizziness back with a vengeance. He has to lean against a wall to will the world into staying still again. He tries to play it cool, but he can almost feel the pressure on his back from the concerned looks he's drawing. Spider-Man isn't exactly known for standing still in the streets; everyone knows he's a pretty hyper superhero with a penchant for heights, always in motion unless he's taking a break with a view from the top of a twenty-story building. Eventually, he feels like he can handle walking again. This time, he doesn't try to keep an eye on who's following him as he walks.

He reaches his alley and takes his time to get a full three-sixty of the area. When he ducks further into the alley, only one person is still looking at them. He stares back, which is apparently unnerving enough to get them to shrug and move on. He waits another minute to make sure no one else was waiting to slip into the alley behind him. When it's all clear, he grabs his backpack—though not without stifling a gag at the smell when he has to get up close and personal with the dumpster it's webbed to—and retrieves his clothes.

It takes longer than usual to peel off the suit and pull on the clothes, and boy, does he have some impressive bruises right where the pain in his side is centered. The front of his mask is covered in blood. It makes it easier to understand why so many people were stopping him before. It's already dirty anyway, so he uses the cleaner parts of the mask to mop any other blood off his face. It pulls uncomfortably at his side when he tries to lift his arm to pull on the t-shirt he had on under his button-up, so he opts to toss the t-shirt back in his bag. The button-up is sort of scratchy, but scratchy was better than having to lift his arm again. It's a small ordeal to lift his backpack. He ends up swinging it over just one shoulder before he leaves his alley.

He tries to shuffle through a few different alleys every couple days to keep people from finding and stealing his bag over and over again. Today's was an early discovery—across the street from Delmar's—and he thanks past Peter for choosing the one closest to his apartment. He's honestly not sure if he would've gotten all the way home if he'd picked one of the further options. But six blocks? He feels up to that much.

Unlike earlier, he notices the signs of the next round of vomiting coming on before the last minute, which is… nice? And yet it's not because what can possibly seem nice while his stomach pangs with white hot nausea and his mouth floods with saliva? He stumbles back to the alley he just left and makes it to an unguarded trash can that he white knuckles and hovers over as the nausea continues crashing over him.

He still remembers being uncomfortable and upset earlier, but it's easier this time. One sudden heave sends him leaning further over the bin and he's immediately vomiting with a strangled sound that he can't hold back. He has a moment to breathe before he retches once and heaves more quietly the second time. When it's over, he tries to spit away the acidic taste that remains in his mouth and is partially successful. He uses a sleeve to wipe away the sweat he just noticed on his brow.

"God, fuckin' drunks," someone mutters as they pass by. He wasn't meant to hear the comment, but super hearing did that to a guy. Tears prick at his eyes for the umpteenth time that day. He keeps his gaze to the ground and internally berates himself for being so bad at this. He doesn't even know what exactly he means by "this." Caring for wounds? Being a hero? Existing in general?

He wonders how the same population that was so eager to help Spider-Man can totally ignore—and he hates to describe himself this way—a beat-up kid wandering the streets. It's like he's seen the best and worst of New Yorkers in just one evening.

He thinks about how tired he is and drags his feet leaving the alley. It's less than a five-minute walk home on a good day, but it takes him longer. He didn't think to check the time on his phone when he started the walk, but he notices the spectacular sunset over the city skyline has faded into dusk when he arrives at his apartment complex. It's nice to have the sun out of his eyes. He'd felt a headache building before, but the darkness soothes some of the pain.

Unless he was mixing up the schedule—and it's entirely possible with the way his head feels—May should already be home. That eliminated the front door route. He'd walked right past her with injuries before, but he'd never had to hide what he was pretty sure was a mild concussion. He hasn't even had a chance to look closely at himself to see the damage. For all he know, his face was still streaked with blood he'd missed during cleanup. Maybe he could play it off, but he thinks being on the safe side is a better idea. He slips around to their side of the building and scales it until he hits his floor.

He slips through the window and onto the ceiling, inching his way across the room through the dizziness. It's not too hard to toe the door closed from his position on the ceiling, even with the world spinning again. He clumsily drops into a heap on the floor. He closes his eyes and thinks he'd be content to stay there forever until a slightly delayed crash from behind him pulls him out of the fantasy. He flops awkwardly around on the floor to avoid jostling his side until he finds Ned sitting on his bottom bunk. They have an unintentional staring contest.

"Uhhhh… you didn't… see that?" he slurs.

"You were on the _ceiling_ ," Ned gasps in a hushed tone.

Peter takes a few seconds too long to answer.

"Yeah." Something tells him this is serious, but that doesn't seem to translate to his mouth and he giggles, flooded with relief at seeing his friend instead of being alone and in pain. "I'm… sticky. Stick to stuff… Like a spider!" He giggles again. Ned looks torn between shock and concern.

"Are you like _high_ or something?" he whispers in case May is nearby. Peter hums.

"No?" It's a question, but Ned has confidence Peter wouldn't lie to him so he assumes something else is the matter. Peter can't find the right words to describe what's wrong so he just lifts his shirt instead.

Ned is confused until he takes a step closer and realizes it's not a shadow along Peter's right side but a giant reddish-purple bruise spanning most of his rib cage.

"I fell? Web…? building… ugh, hurts." Peter's still speaking with the same slur and questioning lilt, not even stringing together full sentences, but at least Ned has an explanation for the horrifyingly large bruise. Ned can't claim to fully understand what happened or what's wrong. What he can see is that his friend isn't functioning at a hundred percent or making good judgment calls, considering that he's given Ned enough clues to be pretty damn sure he's best friends with Spider-Man.

"Okay, okay, you're completely out of it, dude," Ned frantically says. He doesn't know how much May knows. He jumps on the first plan that pops into his head. "I don't think you want May to see you like this? We have to get you out of here. Is there any way you can crawl out the window and hide downstairs?"

Peter whines from the back of his throat but nods slightly. Ned doesn't think he looks completely sure of himself, but it's all they have to go on.

Peter finally decides to lock his bedroom door and sets off on a slow trip interspersed with the occasional stumble around the room to collect clothes and toiletries. Ned helps by taking everything Peter grabs and packing it neatly in his backpack. Even with two people, it's slow going, but Ned finally guides Peter out the window with the bag—"Make sure no one sees you!"—and takes one last glance to make sure his friend is gone before he unlocks the door and eases it open.

"Hey, Mrs. P! I'm sorry, I completely forgot we were supposed to meet at _my_ place! I'll just be going now, bye!"

Well, that was the easy part. Next came the real work.


	3. Caretaking Focus

**Caretaking Focus**

Ned doesn't have much trouble finding Peter downstairs. Sitting hunched as far into himself as he could get on the sidewalk two buildings to the left, he looks about as comfortable as Ned would expect with the bruises he'd seen. Ned helps him struggle to his feet when he's close enough and wraps an arm loosely around his waist. Peter needs the support badly enough that he doesn't protest the help even a little as they set off on the sidewalk.

His parents give him a two-hundred-dollar budget each week they spend out of town that's meant for meals and going out with friends. It's usually a good bit more than he needs considering his only friend is always too busy to do anything, but Ned takes a quiet moment to consider how lucky he is that his parents are so out of touch with the typical teenage budget. It leaves him plenty to call for a taxi instead of making his injured best friend walk the distance to his apartment. They wait until they're a few more blocks away to avoid running into May before Ned adjusts his grip to help Peter sit on the edge of the sidewalk.

It's only a few minutes before Ned is guiding a stumbling Peter into the seat of the taxi and helping him buckle his seatbelt. The driver looks almost concerned for all of three seconds before he apparently decides his customer's weakness isn't his problem. Peter tries to lean his head on Ned's shoulder, but the distance is too far and Ned ends up shifting from the far-left seat into the middle to be close enough. Ned shares the address and waits for the cab to start moving before he pulls out his phone and begins frantically googling variations of the symptoms he knew Peter had.

Peter manages to lightly doze through the short ride, and by the time they arrive, Dr. Google has diagnosed Peter with bruised or fractured ribs and a concussion. Ned can't help a worried frown until Peter pulls his head up as the driver brakes in front of his apartment. He forces as much of a smile as he can for Peter while he tugs out his wallet to pay the driver.

Ned has to support most of Peter's weight through the short elevator ride that takes them to Ned's floor. He catches Peter schooling his expression into something neutral, albeit poorly, and it doesn't take a genius to realize what he's doing.

"You're good," he says. "My parents are out for at least another few days." He could never predict when they'd extend a trip, but his parents have a great track record of never making it back earlier than planned. Peter didn't wait for further permission before dropping the fake expression. Ned grips him by the arm as they make their way to the front door and enter. He hesitates for a moment in the doorway as he decides how to proceed.

"Okay, first thing's first. You need to clean up while I figure out what to do."

It quickly becomes clear that Peter has no hopes of doing that on his own. It takes long enough for him to acknowledge the instruction, and even then, his attempted trip to the shower is rife with stumbling and falling against the nearest wall repeatedly until Ned leaps over to stop him from doing any more damage. He seems a little more mentally _there_ now, but it's obvious he's still physically too weak to handle himself.

"Scratch that, I guess."

He guides his friend by the shoulders until he's sitting next to the bathtub while Ned runs out of the room for just a second, pulling out his phone and frantically googling variations of, "HELP MY FRIEND HAS A CONCUSSION AND SO MANY BRUISES" before he slows down enough to think of better search terms to use. He reaches his room and turns off his screen, leaving it on a promising website he can look over while Peter's occupied.

They've been friends forever, but Ned has yet to see his best friend naked and would be happiest never doing so, so he fishes a pair of his own swimming trunks from the back of his closet. He delivers them to the bathroom with little fanfare and helps Peter tie the knot as tightly as he can after giving him a minute to pull them on.

He guides Peter to his bathtub and hovers his hand around him as he clambers over the edge with a splash, ready to catch him if need be. He doesn't think a bath is the _most_ hygienic way to clean up, but it seems better than having to support his friend through a shower when he can barely stand. He turns his attention back to his phone and lets Peter do what he can with his own uncoordinated hands, which works for a short while, but then he reaches the impressively large bruise—Ned does a double take when he realizes it's darkened a _lot_ since he first saw it—and some of the larger patches of friction burn. He makes a few weak attempts but can't stop himself from flinching away each time, so Ned slips the washcloth out of his grip and waits for the small, jerky nod before he takes over. A few tears trail down Peter's face. Ned's sure part of the bro code is not admitting you've seen your friend cry. He looks away and focuses on what he's doing for the sake of Peter's dignity. He feels guilty when he hears his friend hiss or gasp in pain a couple times, but he only hesitates for a few seconds before he barges on with renewed determination. This might hurt a little, but it was better than risking anything getting infected later on. He distracts him the rest of the time with idle chatter. It's nothing of substance, but it's enough to keep his mind off the pain to some degree.

He leaves Peter shivering in the draining bathtub while he runs to the linen closet. They have one set of basic towels his family uses normally, but he knows there are some softer, nicer-looking ones hidden away for when his parents invite friends and family to stay over. It takes longer than he thought to find one, and he returns with his prize to find Peter outright shaking in the now empty bath. He gives Peter some time to dry off while he takes inventory of the medicine cabinet.

They have painkillers—he sets those aside for later—and disinfectant, but not much else that seems useful in the moment. He grabs ahold of the towel and nudges at Peter until he lets go. Parts of it are coated in blood from—Ned looks more closely at Peter—the still sluggishly bleeding bump on his head. He sighs softly, knowing it's probably not going to wash out; he'll have to throw this towel away somewhere his mom will never find it or she'll _freak_. It takes a moment after that to gather his resolution, but then he makes quick work of applying the disinfectant everywhere he can find scrapes and scratches. Peter, for his part, is more prepared for this pain because of course he must have done it dozens of times on his own, and he barely shows any sign of discomfort throughout the process.

Peter has trouble keeping his balance on the way to Ned's room. Ned has to wrap an arm around his shoulders more than once to keep him from careening head-first into a wall. He sits Peter on his bed while he searches for clean clothes. Peter's been over often enough to have forgotten plenty of clothes. It's one of those things that seems like it would be annoying, but it actually comes in handy for times like this, when Peter unexpectedly decides to spend the night. There's a plain blue sweatshirt and a pair of Peter's jeans in one of his drawers. He grabs the sweater but deliberates on the jeans before grabbing a pair of his own sweatpants instead. They'll be a little loose on Peter but a lot more comfortable than scratchy denim on his bruised and scratched skin.

Peter manages to pull on the boxers he came in and the sweatpants himself while Ned turns away to give him some sort of privacy. He can't hold back a yelp that he muffles into his hand when he lifts his arms to try to pull the sweatshirt on. Ned jumps at the pained sound. He doesn't waste time turning around and pulling the shirt out of Peter's hands. He gives him some time to even out his shallow breathing and relax before he gently guides first one sleeve and then the other on and slowly pulls the shirt over Peter's head. Peter offers a small smile when it's over.

"Hard part's over… I think," Ned announces. "Now you get to lie on the couch while I figure out how to take care of this, unless you know…?" He trails off, but Peter shakes his head, then grimaces as that sets off more pain. With a little effort and a lot more work preventing Peter from accidentally bashing his head again, they make it to the couch where Ned helps Peter lay down slowly. He taps the internet app on his phone and taps back to the most promising websites, skimming them to get an idea of what to do.

"Okaaaay," he drags out, mostly to fill the silence while he scrolls through the last of the articles he found. "This one says…" He pauses to read through everything first. "Right, okay! So, it says for now, you shouldn't take ibuprofen—" Peter exaggerates a pained grimace. "—but it's okay after two days!"

"We can get an ice pack for the swelling if you want it, and you should sleep sitting upright." He rushes to help Peter move into a sitting position instead of lying on the couch. Peter doesn't look enthused by the new position, but it's for his own good. "Other than that, this basically says just breathe and cough normally even though you probably feel like avoiding it. Don't look at me like that—I've heard you breathing weird the whole time I've been with you. You suck at hiding it. Oh, and walk around every once in a while. You're supposed to get a lot of sleep, but I don't know how that works with having a concussion at the same time…"

Peter looks dazed and just lets him summarize the internet's advice uninterrupted. It's a little worrying since Peter is normally excitable in conversations about anything and everything, but he realizes he's never seen Peter seriously hurt before. He must see Ned looking at him expectantly because he finally answers.

"Umm… that sounds okay, I guess. What happened earlier?" He looks entirely too confused, and Ned couldn't put it past him to have forgotten everything he'd just said. It's encouraging that the slur seems to have gotten better than earlier.

"You said you fell, remember?" As it turns out, Peter does _not_ remember.

"What? When?" he questions. "I don't… No, I don't... How?"

"You never really said much, dude. All I know is you scared the shit out of me when you crawled through your bedroom window, and then you seemed really out of it, so I brought you here to hide from May."

"Wait, what!?" Peter's definitely distressed now, though Ned couldn't blame him. He'd probably react the same if he found out someone knew a secret as big as this and he didn't even remember sharing it.

"Yes, I know you're Spider-Man, and we are _definitely_ discussing that when you're better," he confirmed before Peter could waste any more energy freaking out or wondering. "We've already covered this even if you don't remember! I'd rather focus on taking care of you now, if you don't mind."

Peter still looks concerned, but he's not so thoroughly distressed now and that's a good step forward. Time to get back to work. Peter interrupts him first.

"…Oh. I have a healing factor. I heal way faster than normal."

"Awesome! You have _no_ idea how worried I was about hiding this for like weeks, man," he admitted. This is so cool! Peter should've just told him about all of this sooner so they could geek out about it together, but _noooo_. "My parents are out for another few days, so my apartment is your apartment until they're back, but you're the one who has to make excuses to May next time. I can't deal with that stress. I don't know how _you_ do it."

On the plus side to this whole situation, taking care of a concussion doesn't call for much. Unfortunately, the signs point to Peter having more than just a minor concussion. A lot of it is questionable because Ned wasn't there to witness the concussion, and Peter, of course, can't remember it. It doesn't help that Ned can't trust that he'll truthfully answer questions about his medical history as long as he keeps looping back to forgetting that Ned knows about Spider-Man. He suggests going to an emergency room at first, but Peter is adamant about avoiding it.

Ned tries to argue the point for a while, but not successfully. Peter's not wrong, when he thinks about it. Of course a medical professional would notice something weird about Spider-Man's physiology if they looked more than superficially.

Peter's eyes have been slipping closed throughout the evening, only to snap open when Ned raises his voice a little to rouse him. In his state, there's not much to do but rest, so Ned eventually ends the conversation, content to bustle around the apartment handling his usual chores and looking for quiet distractions while his friend rests. He turns a watchful eye to Peter every so often to make sure he's still propped up as he should be and to make absolutely sure he's still breathing. He even slips a spare blanket over Peter one time when he starts shivering, but other than that, he keeps to himself in fear of waking him from his already restless sleep.

It's close to nine when Ned decides he's waited long enough to make a decision. Peter's ribs were slowly healing when he hesitantly shifted the blanket to check, the bruises fading close to a brownish yellow already, but he wasn't going to be able to hide the confusion from the concussion well enough to go home for bed, and Ned honestly thinks it would be cruel to force his friend to make the trip back home in this condition. It doesn't help that Peter's woken up twice already and deliriously spilled the Spider-Man secret—along with several more benign but embarrassing tales he'd never have shared with Ned if he were in his right mind—to anyone who cared to listen. He's just lucky Ned already found out about Spider-Man earlier today and no one else is around to hear his detached rambling. Ned files away some of the muttered confessions for later teasing; he tries to be a good friend, but he's always down for good-natured teasing.

Ned ducks into his bedroom in case Peter wakes and pulls a repeat performance while he's supposed to be out cold. He doesn't have to scroll far through his contacts before he hits May Parker, and he doesn't hesitate before dialing.

"Hey, May!" Well, he's got a decently strong start going for him. "Peter uhhh… fell asleep on my couch. And I didn't want to wake him up! Cool if he sleeps over?" He can't help a hint of nervousness bleeding through, but it turns out that he has no reason to worry.

May never really minds mid-week sleepovers, not after their huge role in helping Peter recover from Ben's death last year, so it's an easy conversation all things considered. Almost the second he's hanging up and placing his phone on his nightstand, someone is calling Peter's phone. Ned makes a dash for the backpack, tossing clothes and books out in his search for the sound. He finally finds it and mutes the ringtone, tossing a glance at the couch to check that his friend is still soundly sleeping.

He looks at the screen—ignoring a multitude of text notifications he assumes Peter wouldn't want him to read closely—and is nervous when he sees that Happy is the caller. He knows Happy is the intern liaison for Stark Industries who basically never responds to Peter, according to several lunchtime conversations. As far as he knows, Happy _never_ calls, but somehow he's chosen today of all days to— _oh_. Duh. Of _course_ the Stark internship isn't real! It's an excuse to go out and be Spider-Man. This is probably important then. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and hide his giddy excitement and swipes to answer the call.

"Finally!" an annoyed man's voice immediately exclaims. "I've been trying to get in contact for hours, kid. I'm missing your report, and Tony's freaking out about the vitals reports from today."

He didn't expect someone so… angry. Plus, he isn't completely sure the Stark internship is a cover-up; Peter will kill him if he outs his secret identity and it turns out Happy just wanted some boring spreadsheet. He takes too long to answer and his attempt to respond is bowled over by the exasperated voice again.

"Are you there or not!? I've stopped him from taking the express route to your apartment for this long, and I'm _done_. Either answer me or _you_ can deal with explaining to your aunt why Iron Man is at her door!" Ned takes his cue faster this time with the confirmation that Peter's important enough for Tony Stark to consider personally visiting him, in the Iron Man suit no less.

"H-hello, Happy, uh—s-sir… Peter's… umm…" He suddenly misses making the call to May. _That_ was much easier. He's normally good with people, but this is someone who probably works with the _Avengers_. He's way out of his depth here. "He's, uhh… asleep! He's asleep now, so…" He trails off.

"Who the hell are you?" The man only sounds more hostile when he hears his voice instead of Peter's.

"I'm N-Ned," he stutters out his own name. "Peter's friend?"

"Just put Peter on the phone, kid," Happy orders. "What are you doing answering someone else's phone anyway?"

He huffs in a deep breath and makes an active effort to rein in the stutter.

"Can you call back tomorrow? Peter's not available tonight."

It turns out he didn't need to turn the man away, though, because suddenly Peter's at his side, grabbing for the phone with one hand with a shaky thumb's up on the other.

" _Heeeyyyyy_ , Happy!" Ned knows him well enough to see how hard he's working to keep his voice level and close to normal. This Happy knows him so little that he falls for it. Judging from Peter's end of the conversations—a summary of what he'd apparently done as Spider-Man that day and a promise to report on time in the future—the man hadn't paused for even a second to ask how Peter was or if something was wrong.

After only a minute and a half, the call is over. Ned sees Peter take a second to glance at his notifications, but he obviously doesn't find anything worth responding to because he almost immediately tosses the phone back into his backpack. He grabs Ned's hand and Ned lets himself be led clumsily to the couch Peter was sleeping on. They take a moment to arrange themselves, Ned making sure to allow only the gentlest contact he can muster with Peter to avoid bringing him anymore pain than he was already dealing with.

Ned takes the liberty of flipping on the television, dropping the volume to almost zero, and tuning into a home renovation show. It's something boring enough that it won't keep Peter awake, but the background noise had always helped lull him to sleep when he stayed over. Ned's theory was that the difference in street noise around their apartments was just too different for Peter to relax without help. He himself used to need near complete silence to sleep, but he's gotten used to the minimal white noise after countless sleepovers with Peter.

Peter's posture was tense, not ideal for falling asleep. Without thinking much about it, he slides his hand across the top of the couch until it roams into Peter's hair, lightly mussing it up in hopes of distracting him from the discomfort he's surely feeling. He sets a simple pattern around his scalp and zones out watching a young couple deliberate on which house to choose.

They eventually fall asleep like that, propped against the back of the couch together with his fingers still in Peter's hair and Peter using his shoulder as a makeshift pillow.


End file.
